The coffers bare, the ledgers red, the debt a beast none dare to name,
Yet Ursula, with outstretched hand, declares your gold must feed the flame.
“A people's purse is Europe's purse,” she hums beneath her practised grin,
And all the bankers nod in time, this theft’s not theft if wrapped in spin.
From Brussels halls to Paris' steps, the chorus rings in honeyed tones:
“The vaults are full, the war drums beat, the people's wealth must build our thrones!”
So up they climb on others' toil, with fingers long and eyes like stones.
Le Maire proclaims, in noble guise, that “dormant” wealth must rise and serve,
For why should those who toil and save expect their fortunes to preserve?
Gramegna speaks of markets “free,” where “savers” find a better yield,
Yet all will march, like driven sheep, into the hands of those who steal.
Lagarde, with airs of measured grace, surveys the hoard with glutton’s eye,
And marks the share that yet remains, not shackled down nor bid goodbye.
“What folly, this, to hoard and wait! The State shall spend, and none shall cry.”
Then Draghi lifts his ancient brow, with wisdom old as rusted chains,
And weighs the “gap” 'twixt East and West, a debt he swears shall be repaid.
“No trifle, this! Five hundred more! Each year must meet our golden take!”
Yet none shall ask the fatal truth: What cost, when none can yet awake?
Donohoe, with numbers prim, declares the course is “clear and wise,”
To drain the vaults of honest men and fund the dreams of State-run lies.
“Your coin must fuel the grand design! What’s yours is ours, do not despise!”
So lock your vaults and bar your doors, and bind your coin with iron clasp,
For tyrants speak in silken tongues, yet plunder fast with iron grasp.
Your savings are but dust to them, your thrift a thing they seek to break,
For men who never earned a groat know best how much of yours to take.
Beware the lips that whisper soft, beware the hand that claims to guide,
For once they seize the hoarded fruit, it’s theirs to burn, not yours to bide.
And when the feast is stripped to bone, they'll laugh, and seek new sheep to hide.
(By John Shenton)